I left Salinas in the early morning. It’s evening now. The wedding will have finished by now.

I write in an abandoned shack on the river between Soledad and Paso, the child sleeps soundly next to me, full of lamb shank. She eats only meat. I have to cut it finely so she can swallow it whole, for her lack of teeth. She becomes ravenous at the sight of any meat at all. I am tired. I am so deeply tired my body weeps. I am no longer able to disconnect from it, so I suppose it’s me weeping now. I have abandoned my friends for some foolhardy adventure, some prideful jab at them, and for what? To prove I could do it? What am I without my friends? They will never forgive me. I am rotten, down to the very core.

The road is long and winds on before me, across a continent where any man, woman or child could be the enemy, waiting for me to appear. Is this how you felt, Adam? Is this how you felt every day? How could you live? Already I am weary of my travels, weary on my first day. What would mother think of me, weeping on an inn bed, alone for lack of humility? I wish deeply to disappear into the forests of Oregon, to build a cabin far into the wilderness where no one will ever find me.

I hope someone finds me. At least then this will be over. At least I will have met someone who knows what a disease I am. To hell with the mission. I’m sleeping here and I’m going to the Columbia River Gorge, starting tomorrow morning. To hell with it!